Caught!
by FrauLanda
Summary: The Jew Hunter recognizes Shoshanna at the restaurant and he's not about to let her go a second time! Hans Landa/Shoshanna. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Wait for the cream

**** I do not own any of Tarantino's glourious characters**

**This fiction deals with the restaurant scene in the film and utilizes much of Tarantino's dialogue (I don't own that either)…As such, if reading about a pre-established scene bores you…I urge you to skip ahead to where the fiction departs from canon. The Landa of this fic is a naughty boy…if that's not your cup of tea…stop reading now!**

**If you have time, I would love some criticism and feedback!****

"Ah, Landa! Da sind Sie hier!"

Emanuelle speaks little German, but that does not stop Goebble's grating voice from turning her stomach to rot. Bile rises slowly in her throat and hot blood pounds in her ears: a rhythmic, violent pulsing….

She barely hears Fredrick over the deafening thump of her heart: the Jew Hunter needs no introduction…they've met before. She senses him at her back; can feel the warmth of his body. She fights the urge to cringe away as the man who slaughtered her entire family, leans over her shoulder and places a stinging kiss on her hand. "Enchanté Mademoiselle," Colonel Landa whispers. They lock eyes and the restaurant is gone at the sound of his voice…she is nineteen again, literally running for her life and covered in the beloved blood this tyrant so easily spilt. His mocking farewell rings in her ears, "Au revoir Shoshanna!"

The present swoops down on her, filling her chest with painful pressure. She notices movement out of the corner of her eye and stands up, so as to leave with the others. A strong hand makes contact with her rigid shoulder and forces her back in the chair. Her stomach flips as though she missed a step, and a tingling panic froths and bubbles from her toes all the way up to her navel. Landa and Fredrick's voices buzz but she cannot focus on the words. Fredrick kisses her hand briskly. She looks pleadingly up, regretting her harsh treatment of him and desperate that he should stay with her. She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a quiet and strangled whimper. Then…he is gone.

Fredrick is gone and she is alone, _trapped_…with Standartenführer Hans Landa. The Colonel sits in Fredrick's now vacant seat and turns to her.

"Have you tried the strudel here?" Landa asks cordially as he wipes the table tablecloth clean with his hands. His language is fluid and laced delicately with a crisp Austrian accent. To hear him speak in such exquisite French makes her ears prickle." and she is just as terrified by the thought of his genius, as she was four years ago, holding her breath beneath Perrier LaPadite's floorboards.

"No…no," Emanuelle manages to choke out. Perhaps he does not recognize her. She was, after all, running _away_ from the murderer the last time they met. Surely, even a man as intelligent as The Jew Hunter could not possibly recognize her. He could not have had more than a glimpse of her face."

"It's not so terrible," he says with a pleasant chuckle. Dimples bloom, framing his mouth as he asks her how she knows Zoller. Landa is a viper, however charismatic he may be, and she steels herself from being lulled into false comfort. She is saved, for the moment, from finding her voice, when the waiter approaches their table. Landa expertly orders two strudel, and an espresso…and a glass of milk for her. Cold sweat beads at the nape of her neck and she cannot help the reflexive raise of her eyebrows.

Milk.

The dairy farmer…

He knows!

Just when she is certain the coup de gras has arrived, Landa merely looks expectantly at her and repeats his question.

Emmanuelle's racing thoughts are yanked to attention; her panic drifts slowly like a bullet through jelly. If he knew, why would he continue the charade? Why not drag her to the kitchens and drown her in the sink? The only answer could be that he enjoys playing with his food…

She explains casually how she and Zoller came to be acquainted. Landa sees through her, though, and assures her in a sincere voice that their chat is a simple formality. His 'comfort' has the opposite effect on her however and the crippling fear seizes her spine again. If he is able to detect the agitation that she is so intently attempting to conceal…then he sees too much, and must surely know the truth.

Their strudel arrives. Landa smiles humbly and apologizes for forgetting to order the cream. Unable to sit still any longer, Emanuelle takes up her fork—

"Wait for the cream…" Landa cautions in a singsong voice, his hand raised as he peers at her from corners of his eyes. She drops the fork and sits back in her chair. She can hardly endure the tension and wishes the game would be over.

Colonel Landa has other plans, however, and continues his interrogation. He asks how she inherited the cinema, but before she can respond, that insufferable waiter is back and they wait while he dollops fresh cream onto the pastries.

"After you," the Colonel invites. Emanuelle takes a bite, though she is not the least bit hungry, and wonders absently if this will be the last thing she eats. She finds it annoying that the strudel really _is _quite tasty, and hates herself for allowing such a mundane thought to leech into her head. Landa attacks the strudel and munches with vigor as Emanuelle answers his questions. He reacts rather sympathetically to the news of her 'aunt' and 'uncle's' deaths, throwing Emanuelle off guard yet again. When he asks about Marcel, she cannot mask the defensive tone her voice acquires. How like a Nazi to degrade a man simply for being Black! Landa shrugs her iciness off and informs her pompously that _she _would be the one to operate the projectionist. He stops chewing abruptly when her reply does not come.

"Is that acceptable?" he asks.

"Oui." She scoffs inwardly, as if anyone would ever challenge him…

He offers her a cigarette, which she accepts gladly, given her nerves. He banters lightly about the cigarettes being German as opposed to French as she leans over for him to light the thing. He blows the lighter out with a teasing look.

"I did have something else I wanted to ask you…"

Her heart stops, and her blood is ice in her veins. She slowly takes the cigarette from her mouth and waits. His gaze pierces her for an eternity…searching, hunting, Her throbbing brain pounds against her skull and she is incapable of looking away from him; transfixed by the knowledge and the death that shrouds his eyes.

"… But right now, for the life of me, I can't remember what it is." The death sentence vanishes from his face and he smiles at his apparent forgetfulness. "Must not have been important…" he chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. He stuffs his cigarette into the strudel, it extinguishes with a hiss.

She does not breathe as he gathers his things and adds another burning kiss to her hand. She clenches her jaw to keep from vomiting.

"Jusqu'à ce soir ." he whispers silkily.

She feels the rush of air as he passes her, but does not even hear his footsteps retreat...not above the ringing in her ears. A beat after he is gone, then her screaming lungs take in a rattling breath and she covers her mouth to quell an aggressive sob. Her mind is a dizzying maze of thoughts and her heart beats out of rhythm. Tears are not enough to express her pain…

The cry hitches in her throat, and the tears vanish from her eyes before they can well over. She holds her breath yet again, every muscle in her body is still…she does not want to make any sudden movements, lest she provoke the glimmer of silver pressed to her windpipe.

She hadn't heard Landa walk away, quite simply because he hadn't done so. He had waited for her to let her guard down so he could pounce…

With one hand pressing the knife to her throat and the other wound tightly in her hair, he stares down at her wide eyes with a look of triumph. Her hands twitch involuntarily and he clicks his tongue in disapproval, shaking his head.

"No, Shoshanna. It would be unwise for you to move, and suicidal for you to reach for any of the sharp instruments on that table. Is that clear?"

She blinks in understanding.

"Now, this is how this is going to work: you will stand up and you will take my arm. We are going to walk out of this restaurant like the old friends that we are and get into the military car that is parked out front. If you attempt to scream I will slit your throat." The knife presses into her skin and miniscule droplets of crimson appear on the mirrored surface. "Is that understood?"

She winces.

"Good. Also, I would like to add that if you in any way attempt to run, I _will_ shoot you. You got a freebie once, it will not happen again. Rest assured, my aim is precise. And while it _may_ make a bit of a mess, I have a feeling that not one patron in this restaurant would mind if I blew your Jewish brains out, right here and now. It makes not one bit of difference to me, what you choose; in fact, I love surprises! But I do have a few more questions for you Shoshanna…or do you prefer Emanuelle? And I desire to ask them in a different location. If you cooperate, I give you my word that you will reach the car alive…If you don't, Private Zoller will mourn you. Or maybe he won't, he may feel less inclined to care for you once you are exposed…I'm going to put my knife away and help you up now."

Landa pulls her chair out, hooks his hands underneath her arms and hoists her to a standing position. Her knees are shaking and she bites her tongue to keep from making any noise. He grabs her wrist firmly, but gently, and twines her slender right arm around his left. He reaches across his chest with his right arm and she feels a jolt of cold, as the freezing gun barrel presses painfully between her ribs. To anyone else, it appears as though his arms are crossed. He is the picture of calm--she's not going anywhere, not this time.

"Good girl." He whispers patronizingly, and they both hear the distinctive 'click' as the gun's hammer is pulled back. All the color is gone from her face, but Landa beams with excitement. He is in his element now.

"Shall we?" he says, jerking his chin in the direction of the doorway.

She inhales and takes a step forward, praying that her legs will hold her. Colonel Landa nods sociably at the diners as they weave in and out of the tables. He winks at the doormen and the two enemies step out into the night air. Landa steers her over to the car and waits while the driver salutes him and opens the car door. Landa stows his gun away, helps Shoshanna into the car and slams the door.

She sits back in the leather seats and weighs her options. Die now?…Die later?...Neither option seems very appealing to her. She listens to Landa's muffled conversation with the driver but cannot make sense of the garbled German language…if only she had some idea of where he was taking her! She might be able to figure out a way to escape…a way to see Marcel one more time. She hadn't even kissed her lover goodbye, when the Gestapo Officer had taken her to the restaurant. _Marcel_…he must be so worried! How long before he suspected Zoller? Before he confronted him? She takes some comfort in knowing that Fredrick would look for her--starting with Landa. But if Marcel confronts Fredrick, what would stop the Nazi from killing him? Her head begins to ache with the hopelessness of her situation. Not only had she gotten herself caught…but she may well be responsible for any harm that comes to her dear Marcel! She groans and rests her head against the soothing cool of the window. She hears Landa climb in the back seat with her, but does not look over at him. The car roars to life and she has to sit up, because the window shakes, aggravating her headache. Landa hums softly to himself, obviously pleased with the events. She steals a sidelong glance at him, and jumps, to see him staring directly back at her. The lines of his face are alternately cast in shadow and light as the car bumps down the road. He looks at her face as though searching for something; she stares back--unable to find anything in his.

At last he breaks the silence, "Have you thought of a way to escape yet?"

"No." she says honestly. "But not for lack of trying…"

He snorts, amused; fumbles in his pocket for something and produces his cigarette case. He waves it in her direction, but she shakes her head. Shoshanna watches the tip of the cigarette glow orange, and imagines sticking it in his eye and jumping out the car door. He watches her watching him, and smiles as though at some private joke.

"And why, Mademoiselle, have you not come up with an escape?"

She glares at him, but declines to answer.

"It's just as well, really," he continues, unperturbed. "It wouldn't work. There isn't anywhere you could go, that I could not track. You've been enjoying anonymity for so long simply because I haven't cared to find you. Four years ago, I cared. I found you then. Today, I _didn't_ care…yet you still fell into my lap! I have no doubt, that should you tempt me with a chase…I will succeed. It's better to just give in." he muses matter-of-factly, tracing patterns on the foggy window.

The cold fear in the pit of her stomach is replaced with boiling anger. He was trying to use reverse-psychology to provoke her! It was working, of course, but only because the _concept, _was insulting…not the manipulation itself—as if she weren't intelligent enough to see through his schemes! "What do you want with me?" she exclaims, her fear finally turning to aggression.

"I want to ask you some additional questions. I thought, I had made that quite plain at the restaurant." He explains slowly, as though he were talking to child.

"Well, have done then! Ask your questions!" she hisses.

"Not here." He brushes some lint off his pants, completely ignoring her outrage.

"Why not?"

"I am not going to waste my breath explaining my methods to you. You will do as I say regardless of my reasoning, so what difference does it make?"

Her jaw drops at his arrogant assumption, and she has to focus all of her energy on remaining as calm as possible. "And if I don't. If I refuse to cooperate?" she challenges.

"Then I will have no further use for you…" he whispers, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray.

"What about when I've answered all of your questions? What then, hmm? Will you have any use for me after that? Tell me, Colonel?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, Mademoiselle. I have not thought that far into the future. I am fairly certain, however, that should you continue to speak to me in that tone of voice, I will be forced to incapacitate you for the remainder of the journey…"

Being unconscious around the Colonel does not seem to be the most agreeable scenario to Shoshanna. Even if it is dark, she still takes comfort in the knowledge that they are headed East from the restaurant. Having _some_ general idea of geography is certainly better than ignorance.

"So, what you say is," she continues with an attempt to sound composed, "that if I refuse: I will die…and if I cooperate: I may also die?"

"More or less, that is accurate. Yes." Landa replies fondly, seemingly pleased that she grasps the concept.

"Forgive me, but what incentive do I have, then, to play ball, if you will?"

"That is a very good question, Shoshanna! I hoped, for your sake, it wouldn't come to this…but since you refuse…If you do _not_ grant me my small requests, then I will kill your projectionist friend. It is clear to me that you have little regard for you own life…but what about his? Are you so willing to sacrifice the Negro to deny me?"

His threat settles on her chest like a sandbag and he watches her proud shoulders droop in submission.

"I thought not." He whispers gleefully.

He is surprised to see her eyes glisten and realizes he had struck a chord more powerful, than even he had anticipated.

"I don't understand." She breathes. Her voice thick, but strong. "You said yourself, that you weren't interested in looking for me. What changed?"

"Opportunity. Just because one does not search the ground for money, does not mean that he will not snatch a coin from the sidewalk when one is there."

"Yet, you let me live! You spared me all those years ago! What was the point, if you come to claim me now?" she pleads.

"That is a discussion for later, I think…" he says with potent finality.

He reaches into his pocket again and extracts a red silk handkerchief. He pulls the scrap of silk through his fingers absently, and unfolds it to reveal a large embroidered swastika.

"After all this time: _you_ are still a Jew," he points at her, " and _I_: am still a Nazi" he places a hand over his many medals on his chest. "The scenery is changed, but we are essentially the same. Fate has thrown us together yet again, and I intend to see what she has in store. That is not the reason _why,_ I choose to keep you…but it certainly is an interesting facet of this situation."

He continues his obsessive wringing of the handkerchief, and she doesn't know why, but it makes her uneasy. She stares at his powerful hands and the vivid blood red between them. A more accurate visual metaphor could not be possible. His hands still, and he turns to her with bright eyes.

"Do you know where we are?" he asks.

"No," she lies.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and he wags his finger at her in disapproval.

"You understand, of course, that I cannot let you see where we are taking you." He says cheerfully, folding the handkerchief.

"You don't need to blindfold me!" she urges, eyeing the red silk.

"My dear girl, whoever said I was going to blindfold you?" he laughs.

Confusion crosses her face, and she tenses as he reaches into his pocket yet again. He turns his back to her. Whatever he finds is too small to see, but a strange smell fills the air and numbs the tip of her nose.

"Do your very best not to scream or thrash about, I'm not going to hurt you," he says with his back to her still.

She leans recklessly over his shoulder, trying to see what he hides…trying to defend herself.

Suddenly Landa is on top of her, she is thrown across the seat and his knees squeeze the sides of her chest making it difficult to breathe. He captures her wrists in one hand and pins them above her head. She writhes beneath him, kicking the car door. But it is no use; he is too strong and too big. He clamps the handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Her natural response is to gasp for air and when she does, her nostrils and throat are invaded by the strange, burning, chemical smell.

"Shhhh…" he whispers, as her struggles become weak. "Shhh…good girl."

Her vision blurs and her thoughts are hazy. Her eyelids droop and she can't fight it anymore. He removes the handkerchief and strokes her cheek softly…

"Shhhh…" he says once more, before she slips into blackness.

****Ta-da! What do you think?****


	2. Panic!

*****I do not own any of Quentin Tarantino's characters or dialogue. Here's some more grumpy Landa for all of you…*****

Cool pressure on her neck. Her eyes flutter open and she groans at the blinding light that accosts her retinas. Landa stows the copper flashlight and watch in his pocket, apparently satisfied with her pulse and pupil reaction.

"Are you a doctor now?" she slurs venomously, trying to sit up and focus on her surroundings.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you--"

The Colonel barely finishes his sentence before Shoshanna's body is overwhelmed with brutal shaking and sick churns in her belly, creeping up her throat. Her hand flies to her mouth, but Landa has already tossed a rusty bucket her way. She seizes the pail and vomits fiercely; the sickening noise reverberates in the room. Landa chuckles softly from somewhere in the corner and another savage wave of nausea overcomes her. When at last her stomach is empty, she pushes the pail weakly away and flops on her back, gasping and trembling.

Soft footsteps crunch and creak closer, and she wills her eyes to slide over to look at him. He bends down and sets a canteen at the foot of the bed. The revelation that she lays on a bed crosses her mind but is quickly dominated by the precedence of her queasiness. He pulls out the red handkerchief and she shudders, jerking away from him.

"Hold still…" he whispers dangerously. He ignores her intake of breath and brings the cloth close to her face. She is shocked when he bypasses her mouth and begins to mop the icy sweat from her brow, albeit not very gently. The red silk is clean and dry and smells only of leather. "I completed a rotation as a medic, early in my military career." He explains shortly.

She wretches again and the force of it causes white spots dance in her eyes. She blinks to banish them and they melt into the pale face of her little brother, Amos, staring wide-eyed at her under the floor, blood pouring from his mouth…Amos's blood in _her _mouth and in _her_ eyes. Blood, dirt and sweat everywhere…the salty smell of it all—the smell of fear and death. The Jew Hunter had taken everything from her, and here she sits quietly while the fiend plays _nurse_? _Mocking her?_ Searing hatred envelops her: hatred for Landa and hatred for herself. She knocks the murderer's hand away with a hiss, desperate to have him off of her.

He catches her wrist in his crushing grip, and his nails dig into her skin, puncturing the delicate layer. "I see you have not learned how to behave respectfully since last evening." His thumb pushes into the sensitive underside, displacing tendons and veins, making her cry out. "In the future, on the rare occasion that I offer you help…you must accept it! The chloroform you inhaled induces severe nausea...as you have so aptly demonstrated. Now, unless you have a perverse fondness for gagging, I suggest that you sit up _slowly_, that you sip some water and that you refrain from overexertion. I would like to add, however, that my suggestion is a strong one…as I am in no mood to wait on you."

He releases her and she recoils, cradling her battered wrist. Landa reclaims his post in the dark corner and Shoshanna drags herself to sit up against the headboard. An angry ghost of a handprint blazes on her skin, peppered with five tiny half-moon lacerations. Landa sees the mark from across the room and looks down at his own hand: Jewish blood glistens there beneath his nails. He feels nothing. Not guilt; why would he? But something is missing…exhilaration, perhaps?...He must not be trying hard enough.

She studies her silent captor between sips of water. His face is concealed in darkness but she can sense a change about him: an awakening, or newfound energy…something that most likely does not bode well for her. She scans the room, searching futilely for a way out. Her dim cell has the air of grandeur gone by. There is a single entrance and a small water closet to her right. The paint on the walls cracks and curls, and the furniture is extremely worn but also meticulously dust-free. The heavy bedspread smells faintly of soap and cloves: a sobering aroma. Tattered draperies obscure the whole of the left wall, but for the slivers of murky light that burst through tiny rips and tears in the old fabric.

"Finished with the preliminary inspection?" he smirks as he advances again.

She takes another sip from the canteen in reply and shrugs her shoulders. "I'll give you a tour, shall I, of _'Chateau Emanuelle'_?" he sneers, offering his hand.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to exert myself?" she says childishly.

"Either stand up Mademoiselle, or I shall throw you over my shoulder." There is no lie in his face, only waning patience. He nods at her and curls his fingers, beckoning her to stand. She slides her small fingers into his palm and he yanks her harshly to her feet. Her heads swims and she has to grab his shoulder for support. Before she is able to regain her equilibrium, he clutches her upper arm and drags her about the room. "The door locks from the outside—I have the only key. The water closet is here. And this--" he gestures to curtains, "won't do you any good either, I'm afraid." He throws the curtains open, revealing an entire wall of glass. Nothing but foggy flatland stretches before them. The view has a haunting beauty; there is no mistaking it, and the impression is made even more foreboding by the intrusion of the stout iron bars that span the glass. The horizon is completely devoid of tree, rock or hill. Not a single clue as to the location of her prison. They could be anywhere in French country…

"You win…" she concedes, throwing her hands in the air.

"I usually do." He smirks happily and shoves her back to the bed.

"Now, to a few more housekeeping items." He paces the room giddily, with his hands behind his back. "I will be leaving shortly and I expect you to behave while I am away. There are some clean things to wear in the cupboard in the lavatory…gentlemen's things—but they will have to suffice. There are men down the hall and posted around the ground floor. They are not as tolerant as I, and I would advise against tempting them. Should I return to any tales of disobedience, I shall be immensely displeased…Is that clear?" he pauses abruptly, eyebrows raised. "Good," he gloats, pulling his gloves on.

"When will you return?" she blurts at his back.

He stops with his hand on the doorknob and tilts his head just enough so that she can glimpse the dimples carved into his cheek. "This evening, I think. I have to sort out the question of your darling Private Zoller's premier…"

"But you can't just leave me here! It can't even be mid-day yet!"

"On the contrary Mademoiselle," Landa pivots to face her, "I _can_ leave you here and you will see the evidence of that ability shortly! Consider for a moment: no one knows where you are—not a single soul…Not even you!" he snorts as an afterthought. "Do not fret, ma chère! I will be back before long and we can continue yesterday's little…_chat_."

Her jaw drops at the man's absurd audacity. _Don't fret?_ As if she would _miss_ the insidious butcher? As if she were _eager_ to endure more of his abuse?

"You're insane!" she mutters.

"No..." His eyes snap up and Shoshanna's nerve evaporates with a shiver. "No, Mademoiselle, I most certainly am not," he snarls.

Again she is transfixed by his steel eyes and sees her execution there. She sees what he is capable of, sees his cold control and sees him consider relinquishing it…

He flashes a terrifying grin instead and shakes his finger at her, "You know, you might be more trouble than you're worth…then again, you might be _just enough_ trouble…" he eyes her a moment longer before turning to leave.

"But how--how long do you intend to keep me here?" she manages to murmur in a small voice.

"As long as it takes…Au revoir Shoshanna!" He draws out her name, holding it torturously on his tongue. The door shuts behind him and locks with a resounding click—the final nail in her coffin.

Minutes crawl by and still she is rooted to the bed, staring blankly at the weathered door. While her body is frozen--her mind is whirring. Had he said anything? Let anything slip that might help her escape? Could she bribe a guard? Were there any other windows? No. No, no, no, no….NO! Nothing. No way out. Her pulse leaps jaggedly as panic sets in. She is going to die here. She is going to die alone. Die for her heritage, just as her family had.

Not without at least trying, she isn't.

Ignoring the persistent nausea, she scrambles from the bed and rushes to the cold glass wall. Even without the bars, the drop is too high. She wouldn't be able to keep from breaking her legs. _Who cares? Better to be crippled than to die!_ She whips around, panting, searching. There isn't any loose furniture…nothing with which to break the glass. Her eyes zoom in on the only free standing object in the room. She grabs the pail of sick and rinses it hastily in the lavatory, rushing back into the bedroom. Not thinking and not caring how much noise she makes, she hurls the bucket at the glass wall with a scream of fury.

The pail ricochets off the window and clatters to the floor. Not even the tiniest crack or scratch appears on the grimy glass. Crying tears of desperation she runs to the window and beats it with her bare fists, cursing and sobbing. The thing will not budge, and taunts her with the image of the expansive freedom that is so close. Her hands squeak with sweat as she slides slowly down the length of the window to her knees. She sits there, slumped and exhausted; yet no one comes. No one comes to silence her racket and the tears dry stiffly to her cheeks and neck.

She hiccups a few more times and forces her body on all fours. Even if Landa does choose to torture and kill her: she will not beg and she will not be without her dignity. Using the bed as leverage she gets to her feet and walks shakily back to the water closet. The porcelain tub is deep and looks ancient. She twists the creaking taps and scalding water shoots out. She is grateful that the water is clean, even if it is boiling. The drawers are practically empty: no brush or lotions. It has definitely been a while since anyone used the place. She manages to dig up a bar of soap and reasonably sharp straight razor. She soaks for a long time…minutes…hours. The heat relaxes her muscles and clears her mind. Busting out was not an option: Landa had seen to that. But what would the Standartenführer _not_ expect_? _Begging would not work, and is insulting anyway. She cannot outsmart him--he is known for his genius, after all! But could she _fool_ him…somehow? He must have a weak spot? Even The Jew Hunter is bound to have a weakness! She will find the Colonel's Achilles heel…and see her Marcel again!

The water grows cold and coaxes goose bumps to her skin, so she climbs reluctantly from the tub and towels off. The clothes Landa spoke of are silk men's pajamas, quite lovely save the foul swastika on the cuffs. She tosses the offensive garments aside and opts for the grey robe that hangs on the door.

She pads over to the bed, running her fingers through her hair. How to fool him? How to catch him off guard?...It seems impossible. But what other choice does she have? The same fruitless questions buzz through her brain, until finally she can think no more, and drifts to sleep.

Her stomach growls loudly a few hours later and stirs her from her agitated sleep. She yawns and pries her eyelids open.

Darkness. The room is almost pitch-black, the only light source being the half of a moon that watches from the wretched window. She struggles to remember if there was a light-switch somewhere—

Scraaaaatch! She jumps at the match being lit. A tiny flame floats in Landa's favorite corner; she is not alone. "I trust you slept well?" he asks blowing cigarette smoke in her direction. Her empty stomach gurgles deafeningly in response. Landa laughs softly and Shoshanna blushes for some reason.

"Ahhh, yes! Of course, you must be hungry! How silly of me! I suppose it's been twenty-four hours since you last ate…would you like me to get you something?" he asks politely in his flawless French, making her skin crawl. He is being too nice…something is up.

"No." she spits.

"Noooo….?" The voice in corner prods threateningly.

"No, _thank you_."

"That's better. But you'll have to dispense with your clever hunger strike plans, I fear. I've already sacrificed one day to your health."

"You can't force me to eat!"

"Can't I…?"

Her stomach rumbles again, and Landa chuckles.

"Isn't there a light in here that you can turn on?" she huffs, cursing her traitorous body.

"Why?" Suddenly his voice is close…too close. "Am I making you nervous?"

She shivers involuntarily. "N—No. I'm just tired of squinting at nothingness!

The room explodes into view and Landa taps the wall right behind her, where the switch is located. She makes a mental note to not forget that minor detail again. Landa spots the overturned pail next to the window and lifts it by the handle with his pinky finger. She notices for the first time that her episode had left a considerable dent in the side and bits her lip.

"What did it ever do to you?" he laughs.

She declines to answer yet again, not sure what to make of his bizarre mood. She is supposed to be working _him,_ but how can she if he keeps changing his approach? She likes this joking Landa even less than the violent one…as least his violence is straightforward.

"Is there something wrong with the clothes I left?" He gestures to the bathrobe with his cigarette.

"Too big," she lies.

"Hmm. Too big." Landa spins the bucket in his hands and slams it upside down on the floor. She flinches at the loud noise it makes and pulls the robe tighter around her body. Landa brushes the bottom of the bucket off with his gloves and sits on it, a mere foot from the bed.

Landa rests his chin on his interlocked fingers and stares serenely up at her. "Your Negro has been arrested." He says suddenly.

"WHAT?" Shoshanna leaps to her feet, towering over Landa. "HOW COULD YOU--"

Landa raises his hand with such menace that the sentence dies in her throat. "SIT DOWN!" He growls, pointing once at the bed. Her mouth closes with a pop and she falls back to the mattress. "He was arrested last night. When Goebbles and Zoller arrived at your cinema for the private viewing and, naturally, you weren't there…needless to say: things got very heated. The Negro blamed Zoller. Zoller blamed the Negro. And Goebbles blamed you. Long story short: your friend angered the wrong people and landed himself in jail."

"But, they'll kill him!" Shoshanna whispers, fighting the sting in her eyes and throat.

"Most likely." He says simply.

"Oh my God…what have I done? What do I do?" The day's earlier panic begins to tremble in her again.

"Nothing. Once Zoller finds out that you two were involved…he will most definitely kill the Negro!"

"Fredrick wouldn't do that." She assures herself.

An uproarious laugh erupts from Landa's throat and her has to steady himself to keep from falling off of the makeshift seat. "Private Zoller…the man who became famous for slaughtering hundreds in a single siege…would spare your Negro? Please, Mademoiselle, naïveté is most unbecoming…I tell you this because it is important for you to understand that it's over now. You projectionist friend will die, and Private Zoller will most likely abandon all regard for you, now that he knows the romantic company you keep. We now have all the time in the world to get reacquainted! Not only does no one _know _where you are, by tomorrow, I sincerely doubt there will be anyone who _cares_."

Landa savors the effect of the news and watches the veil of tears obscure her beautiful face. He is relieved that the morning weakness he felt is gone and that he can thoroughly enjoy her pain. To some degree he is disappointed that the little liar was so easily broken...

"I'll fetch us some bread, then. Don't go anywhere!" he taunts, flashing his devilish smile.

Shoshanna barely registers that Landa is gone, too consumed with guilt and grief.

Marcel.

Sweet Marcel, was imprisoned for merely defending her…Marcel, sent to the wall because of her.

All of the sudden the bedroom door bursts open with a crash and Shoshanna has to blink to make sure she is not hallucinating…

"Fredrick!!!" she cries.

*****A lot of exposition, I know…the good stuff is coming, though! I just had to get this out of the way. Some yummy Landa comin' up shortly!*****


	3. The Truth

****Please be advised: this chapter is extremely violent. If violence offends you or is uninteresting to you, please do not continue. As always, I do not claim to own a single shred of Tarantino's genius****

The door slams against the adjacent wall with such brutality, the room quivers. Private Zoller's heaving figure towers silently, one hand pinning the heavy wood in place, his fingertips white with force.

"FREDRICK!" she cries.

Her rescuer does not answer and he does not approach. Instead he stays hunched, lurking…blocking her from the otherwise wide-open escape.

"Good God, Fredrick…" she calls, rushing around the bed to embrace the benevolent Nazi. How could she have ever found this wonderful man annoying? He is her salvation; regardless of what he may have done in the past, he proves himself now! She throws her arms around his stone shoulders and laughs into his neck. "I knew you'd find me! I knew it--"

Suddenly the scene is very wrong, though, and everything is changed before she can even blink.

A sharp intake of breath: Zoller's shaking hand twists in her hair and wrenches her head viciously back. The grotesque ripping sound of the roots separating from her scalp echoes in the room, but this seems only to spur his ferocious grip. She claws at his fingers, "Fredrick, please!" Shoshanna's confused eyes swim with tears, begging and desperate. Her neck will surely snap from the extreme angle…still he does not let her go.

"Please…"

"It hurts doesn't it, Emanuelle?" he hisses, centimeters from her face. His eyes are narrow, red and wild…this is not the Fredrick Zoller she knows. A terrifying menace stares from the eyes once belonging to a sweet boy. She could not have imagined his danger before this moment, but it strikes her to her very core now. "DOESN'T IT?" he growls, giving her injured neck and scalp another jerk.

"Y-YES!" she sobs.

"Good!" Angry spit flies in her face and he she shoves her to the floor. A scream shatters the air when her already bruised wrist snaps in the attempt to brace her fall. "Good…" he repeats, his voice cracking. "Get up…I said GET UP!"

She grunts through her tears when his boot makes contact with her ribs, momentarily lifting her from all fours. Completely stunned, she rolls onto her back choking and sputtering. "Fredrick…let me explain--"

"Halt den Mund!" He momentarily reverts to German in his fury and bends to her, seizing her throbbing arm. "Emanuelle, you…" he pants, dragging her across the floor, "are…a LIAR! I have no interest in your yarns!"

"No—ugh" her body slams to the bed. "No! Fredrick--"

"No?...NO? How can you deny it? When you let me believe that you were unspoken for; that there might be some way…"

"Fredrick, please try to understand! I _did_, _I did _try to tell you…I never meant to--"

Her gaze travels to the door. It is wide open, still.

"And all the while, you've been sharing your bed with a _Negro! _Have you any idea of the sacrifices I've made for you? I put my reputation on the line, suggested your simple cinema for one of Germany's most triumphant premiers, I _boasted_ of you to Goebbels! Only to find out that not only do you not bother to show up to the private screening, but I have to hear second hand that you already belong to a filthy Negro! You have made a fool of me!"

"NO! Fredrick, you _must_ believe me!" she pleads on the verge of hyperventilation, "It was not my choice to miss the screening! Colonel Landa, he kept me here! It was not my choice!"

"But you _are_ in love with the projectionist? Are you not?"

"Yes! But hear me out, Fredrick…I was going to tell you!" she lies to save her skin. "I would've told you! Just because I love another does not mean that I do not care for you…but how was I supposed to explain that while held captive here?"

She glances over at the doorway: still unblocked and unguarded. If she could just get out of the room…

"Why did you not tell me sooner, then?" He yells, shaking her by the collar of her robe. "WHY WAIT? If not to laugh at me? And why should I believe that you did not come to this place of your own accord? What possible reason would the Colonel have to detain you?"

"Yes, _Emanuelle, _by all means…tell the dear Private what possible reason I could have to keep you here…"

Though barely above a whisper, Landa's voice cuts through the room like a blade. She is doused in ice water, her brain is frozen, her heart does not beat--she is finished. Her eyes slide slowly closed…and she prepares for the end.

Fredrick's head whips in the direction of the doorway, but he maintains his grip on Shoshanna's robe. "Ahh…Colonel Landa. Perhaps _you_ can shed some light on the situation. I find myself untrusting of Mademoiselle Mimieux's testimony, of late," he snarls shooting a venomous look at the trembling girl.

"Certainly!" Landa beams. "I would be more than happy to, Private Zoller. And, may I say: it is so good of you to join our little party…though I don't recall inviting you…" he finishes gravely.

"And_ I_ don't recall you mentioning Mademoiselle Mimieux's whereabouts when we spoke this morning. In fact…what I _do_ remember is you telling me that you hadn't any idea where she was! How do you explain yourself Colonel?"

"Tsk, tsk _Private_ Zoller. You have a dangerous habit of challenging authority…such _disrespect_…and to think, Goebbels speaks so highly of you." Landa admonishes quietly, stepping deftly into the room. "I'm afraid, you forget that: while you may be basking in your newfound celebrity, you are still a mere Private. Reichsminister Goebbels and The Führer may smile on your brave exploits, but I doubt they would approve of such blatant insubordination…"

"Verzeih mir. I assure you, I mean no disrespect Herr Oberst, but this is most frustrating…I think I am entitled to some answers. What are you doing here with Mademoiselle Mimieux?"

"My investigations are no concern of yours, Private. You've worn out your welcome, I think. We can discuss this with Reichsminister Goebbels later perhaps. I'm sure he will be _very _interested to learn of you conduct."

"No more than he will be interested in yours, no doubt." Fredrick whispers, sounding less certain than his words suggest.

Shoshanna finally allows herself to steal a glance at Landa and is surprised to see a look of amusement where she expected anger. The Jew Hunter's sly smile bubbles into a fit of rich laughter. It is not a soothing sound, however, and serves only to add more tension to the air. The Colonel clutches his chest and shakes his finger at the young Private.

"Yes," the murderer roars, regaining a measure of composure, "You are right, of course! How intrigued Goebbels will be that I am interrogating a _Jew_! Scandalous news, indeed! Please be sure to tell him quickly…he may not have been informed of my job. How silly of me to make assumptions…"

At last, they have come to it. The moment she has been dreading since Zoller burst through the door. The truth.

The color drains rapidly from Zoller's very flushed face, and his puzzled eyes flash from Shoshanna to Landa and back again.

"A Jew…" he mouths.

Something stirs in Shoshanna at the look of pain and disbelief on his face. She almost feels sorry for him…almost.

"Emanuelle?" He asks: very nearly pleading.

"That's not her name Private Zoller…or haven't you been reading along? Her name is Shoshanna Dreyfus, and she is a fugitive of the state…or _was _until you handed her to me."

"That can't be…she is French!" Zoller whispers, staring wildly in Shoshanna's eyes.

"If by French, you mean that she was born in France…then yes—she most absolutely is. But she is also _a Jew_." The Colonel spells out condescendingly.

"No!" Fredrick denies again, his eyes boring into Shoshanna's.

"Ask her yourself."

Fredrick swallows hard and furrows his brow, begging her without words.

Shoshanna takes in a shaky breath and looks one last time at Landa, before staring straight into Fredrick Zoller's eyes and digging her grave.

"I am what he says--"

The confession does not even reach its period before she is hurled back by the stinging slap to her cheek. It feels as though her eye-socket has splintered, but that doesn't matter because she has gone blind anyway. The cool muzzle of Zoller's pistol kisses her cheek. Part of her prays for him to pull the trigger…at least death will not hurt so much.

Click.

She is still alive, though. Why is she still alive?

Landa's voice floats somewhere miles away…in French, always in French…as if for her, for some strange reason.

"It would be unwise, Private, for you to make any rash decisions with that trigger finger of yours. If you shoot, then so do I…"

"You would protect this lying whore? This Jew?" Fredrick's crazed voice sounds as though it is underwater.

"Hardly. It's not her _life_ I care for: This _liar _holds certain information that I desire. If you blow her brains out, I have no way of extracting what I need. Besides, this one is mine, I'm afraid. She escaped me once and _I_ intend to be the one who remedies that fact. You're a smart lad; though…go channel your energy somewhere else. Take it out on the Negro if you must…"

Shoshanna's mind is ablaze at Landa's suggestion, and she wills her body to stay conscious out of sheer anger and fear. The muzzle digs deeper into her swollen cheek.

"I already have. Why shouldn't she share her lover's fate?"

Spinning…spinning…no air…no light…just static. Can't breathe. No air. Spinning.

'_I already have.' _No. She misheard them. No. She would've known. She would've felt it if Marcel had…if Marcel had been…She tries to make her ears work better. Tries to make everything make sense again.

"Because," Landa's terrifying voice buzzes faintly, "I already told you: she belongs to _me_. Now, this is the only time I will ask: lower the gun, soldier."

Shoshanna's mind screams for Landa to shut up and for Zoller to kill her. Please, just kill her too. The grief is too much. She never knew that there could be such pain on the earth! But the pressure and cold of the gun lifts and is replaced by the acute throbbing that covers the rest of her body.

"Perhaps, you _are _as smart as they say, Zoller. Now get out my sight…go…NOW!"

The sound of stumbling footsteps as Landa throws Zoller bodily from the room. The door snaps shut and the bolt slides into place. She is locked in with the madman again. It doesn't matter now, though. Not without someone to return to. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing.

"Wake up."

Feather light taps against her cheeks, lolling her tender head back and forth.

"Wake up! You don't get to sleep yet. I need to know if you need to go to hospital…"

Suddenly, she is drowning--he is drowning her! Water occludes her nostrils and throat, sending her body thrashing and flailing about. Her eyes break open and she gasps for air, knocking his hand and canteen away from her face.

"Well, what do you say for your dear Private Zoller now, hmm?" he taunts. "Hold still, the sooner I finish assessing the damage, the sooner you can sleep."

His hands are cool on her burning wrist and it barely hurts as he feels the bone. The careful touch travels up her arm to tend to her neck and fingers, and eventually ghosts over her mutilated face. It is quick and virtually painless…aside from the disgust at having the pig touch her.

"Your wrist is fractured, your neck is severely bruised and there is some bleeding where he pulled out your hair. Your cheekbone is also bruised, but not broken. Lucky for you…he didn't do any lasting damage. _Unlucky_ for you, it is going to be an agonizing healing process. I will wrap your wrist for tonight and splint it in the morning…or later, rather, as it is already morning." His string of diagnoses is said unfeelingly, if not with a little smugness.

She hears him walk away and come back. He begins to wrap something tightly around her wrist, and daggers shoot up her arm, filling her eyes with water again. Once the tears start, she cannot stop them. She lies there; heaving monstrous sobs while The Jew Hunter wraps her wrist.

"That's quite enough blubbering, thank you," he sneers, tying a knot in the bandage.

The jagged edge in his command stops her and she blinks incredulously at him. Her eyelashes shimmer with heavy tears.

"Good girl…"

"Just do it, already." She croaks between debilitating hiccups.

"Pardon me?" he asks curtly.

"Just do it. You're going to kill me anyway, right? Here I am…"

"I know you weren't entirely unconscious for my conversation with Private Zoller, and therefore do not take kindly at being prompted to repeat myself…No. Not yet. I still have use for you. And I'll be damned if I allow you to pressure me into a mercy killing. Where is the sport in that, may I ask?"

"Please! Just kill me!"

His eyes flash and he scoops her limp body up and tosses her to the middle of the bed, throwing the covers over her. He smacks the light switch and yanks the draperies closed, engulfing the room in utter darkness.

Disoriented as she is, it frightens her greatly to feel his breath tickle her face in the blackness.

"Ask me one more time…" strong fingers snake around her thin neck.

"Kill me?" she begs a final time, though with much less conviction.

His voice is in her ear, and The Jew Hunter's lips brush her skin. "I already have…I killed you in 1941, underneath LaPadite's floorboards…I killed you when I let you run through that field…I killed you when I gave Zoller access to the Negro…And I killed you again, tonight, when I made him let you go. I've already killed you…Don't you see?" He gives her sore neck a quick, tight squeeze. And then his hand is gone, his breath is gone and his mouth is gone.

The door opens and closes once more, and Shoshanna cries herself to sleep.

****Whoah! I would be eternally grateful for feedback…this was really dialogue heavy…sorry about that!****


	4. The Plan

**Pheww! Sorry about the wait guys! This chapter would simply not behave!!! It was very arduous to write…I hope it is not so arduous to read! Be warned: this is lengthy…make sure you've gone to the bathroom before you begin reading…it may take a century to get through! At least the ball is rolling now…Enjoy, friends!!!!**

Empty. Hollow. Barren. Void. Cavernous. Vacuous.

Soapy fingers trace the grey, mottled and curling flesh around the smoking bullet hole nestled in the valley between her breasts. The wound seems uninterested in bleeding but a few small droplets manage to slide halfheartedly down, and rest in her belly button, before fading into the milky bathwater. The quivering and cauterized flesh bursts outward as if trying to escape, wanting to chase the little piece of lead, long out of sight…that is normal though, when one is shot in the back.

The smell of gunpowder stings her throat and nose, but not enough. Not enough to distract her…she explores the numb edges of the gaping hole. Why is it she continues to draw breath, if the bullet has made her lungs and heart still?

He heedlessly put holes in everyone she ever loved. She shares this gaping chasm with her parents, her uncle, her sweet little brother…and now her Marcel. Why, then, is she the only one forced to endure? This nagging ache in her chest feels real enough, the horrific bullet hole looks disgusting enough…she _feels_ dead enough. What else is there? What else can he possibly take?

Ah…but he had not pulled the trigger, had he? Someone else had. Every time…it was someone else. Her poor family was gunned down by common soldiers, her lover was slain by _The Nation's Pride._ Delegation does not a clean pair of hands make, though. He was and always will be responsible for those deaths. He probably would be first to lay claim to them, actually…

Were it not for The Jew Hunter, her family and her lover would be alive. Were it not for The Jew Hunter she would've spent the duration of the war, safely tucked away with her loved ones. Were it not for The Jew Hunter, she would have memory of what it is to truly smile and laugh.

To be whole…

To be alive…

Landa is right. She is a shell, a deflated ghost of a person. Marcel was the only reason for her to put food in her mouth, to wake, to function. Marcel was the beacon who reminded her what the sacrifice of her family meant: that she _must _live, and live fully…for her family, if not for herself. But she had failed. It was farce: her life at the cinema. She loves…_loved_ Marcel, yes, but never gave herself completely. Marcel knew, of course, she could see that knowledge in his sad smile. It was enough for him, perhaps, but not enough for Shoshanna. Even with a man so good, and kind and loyal as Marcel to hold…her mind was ever wandering and restless. But the things her heart searched for were dead, and reduced to rotting bloodstains beneath the dairy farmer's floorboards. Now, Marcel is cold and bloodied somewhere too. She is alone.

Landa has taken the very last shred of purpose from her. Were it not for Landa…

Another trickle chokes and sputters from the offensive gash.

Were it not for Landa she would be dead too, though. As appealing as that option currently sounds to her, she muses why he chose to save her twice, now. It is a twisted play he directs, to shove her into death's loving embrace only to snatch her back by the scruff of her neck. Why hadn't he shot her in that field? Why hadn't he let Zoller execute his rage? What was the _point_?

"_She belongs to me." _The memory of Landa's musical French makes her shiver. How absurd, to keep her suffering because _he _wants to be the one to drop the axe. Of course he is keeping her alive, he will have to find a new toy, after all, once she is dead. He'll want to prolong his 'investigation' as long as possible. Sick. He is sick.

Well, she won't be his plaything any more. A few torturous days of that was enough…

The ugly thing on her chest oozes lazily as if to remind her of its existence…as if she could forget.

Her fingers trace a final idle lap around the ruined tissue before she purses her lips and huffs sharply in and out of her nose: deciding and preparing. In. Out. In. Out. In…Experiencing a wildly liberating rush of self-destructiveness she plunges her fist into the aching cavern between her breasts.

White-hot!

Fire!

Her brain is on fire! The rippling agony is everywhere and nowhere all at once! It is better to hurt than to feel though…she can almost cry with relief.

That is, until the fire is too strong, too hot. Wind rushes in her ears as the fire is sucked rapidly from her brain and her spine. It whooshes through her, not away…the coursing pain has a destination, somewhere specific. Curiously, it does not settle in the wound, as it should; instead the blaze settles in her screaming hand.

She wills her tearing eyes to focus and stares down at her unblemished chest, heaving and glistening with sweat and soapy bubbles. Her crumpled and bandaged hand shakes violently, its fingers splayed grotesquely as in rigor mortis. The fracture in her wrist sizzles, the pain will surely melt the bone.

Stupid. Stupid, girl!

There was no bullet hole, at least not for her. A foolish thing to imagine, as Marcel was probably shot in the _head_ anyway…Not only is she _not _fatallyshot, she is left with a searing reminder of just how alive she is—in the shape of her grossly injured wrist!

Where is she? In the _bath_, obviously! What was she doing before her little daydream? Shaving. The straight razor feels heavy in her uncoordinated and weak left palm. But as her right is out of commission…the dull blade scrapes halfway up her calf before biting flesh. This time, real blood blooms and drips, swirling in the pearly water. _God Damnit Landa! _She drops the ridiculous razor and watches it float to the bottom of the tub and land with a delicate _clink_. Insufferable Nazi! Putrid hedgehog! It feels so good to lay blame on that murderous bastard. It _is_ his fault, though; he forced her to this forsaken dungeon. The cut on her leg bleeds freely turning the water around the laceration pink. Clearly, the wretched blade was sharper than she realized. Sharp enough to make her bleed…

Sharp enough…

Would it be sharp enough to make _him _bleed?

Sharp enough to kill?

She checks herself: did that thought just occur to _her_? Had she really just considered taking human life?

No. That would be unforgivable…A Nazi is hardly human.

She had considered something entirely different. She had considered _revenge_…She _is _considering _justice_.

The excitement of her thoughts dulls the pain in her wrist and fills her with wonderful frenzy. She is going to kill Hans Landa.

No. No, she's not. She could never pull that off!

Then, what a way to die! Go out slicing instead of cowering…yes! She is going to kill the man who killed her family…

Now. She will do it now. Hah! The next time she sees him, will be the last time.

This is absurd and suicidal…and yet she has never felt more committed to a course of action in her life!

She palms the razor once more and shaves her legs quickly and clumsily with her left hand, ignoring the smattering of nicks in the razor's wake.

Practically leaping from the cold bathwater, she towels off and rushes over to the cupboard next to the vanity. Her reflection stops her, and she moves closer to examine the stranger there. A swollen face stares back through the permanent spider-webs that span the antique mirror. The left side of her face is black and blue, and her neck a hazy yellowish-green. She is surprised that her right eye is not as swollen as she had anticipated. Curse Landa and his apparently accurate declaration that she would heal easily! She isn't too pretty to look at now…all for the better, though. If this butchered visage is the last thing his loathsome eyes see…then she is happy for it!

By taking her purpose, the fiend has given her purpose.

She finally has something with which to occupy her mind and make it grind into action. This invigorating feeling may not necessarily make her a _whole_ person, but she feels more awake than she has in years!

Her elation is somewhat deflated upon examination of the cupboard, though…

Dresses.

Landa had left a note on the bathroom door, in an annoying show of courtesy, rather than wake her up.

_There are new clothes hanging in the W.C. I thought it imprudent to mention it last night, when you were so consumed by your spirited conversation with Private Zoller. I was forced to venture a guess as to what measurements you are, I will arrange for alterations if necessary. I urge you to take advantage of the selection, as I would like my favorite bathrobe restored to me. Do your very best to keep the dressing on your wrist as dry as possible. I shall return in the late afternoon._

_H.L._

The Jew Hunter's so-called selection consists only of silly frocks. All are detestably gorgeous and fine, but none too practical. Where is she supposed to conceal a weapon on or within a _dress_? What she wouldn't give for a pair of pants! The clothes she wore to her prison are missing, presumably being laundered or discarded.

She glances longingly at the comfortable robe beckoning her from the hook on the door, at least _it_ has convenient pockets…but it doesn't really qualify as clothing and the garment admittedly lost its appeal once she learned just _who_ owns the thing. To think, she'd been wearing _his_ robe! Disgusting! There was always _something_ about the cologne embedded into the grey fibers that she did not like. The warm smell of gun-oil, firewood and fir may _seem _appealing at first blush…but it not so intriguing after a while. Yes, the masculine smell was intoxicating for the first day or two, but after that--it really got to be rather boring.

The under-things the Nazi had provided are hardly realistic, either. Frilly garter belts, brassieres, panties and stockings even! How frivolous and hypocritical for a Colonel to purchase silk and nylon, when the two are in such short supply!

While straightening the seam on the stockings, however, Shoshanna feels a rush of gratitude for Landa's disregard for wartime rationing. The razor slides soundly into place between the garter belt and her hipbone. Perfect. She grabs a slip and skips back to the mirror, shaking about to test the security of the weapon: it doesn't budge. The slip whispers over her form, its fit extraordinary, a small bulge gives the razor away, though. Luckily the pleats on the exquisite navy blue dress conceal the tell.

Positively humming while she pins the front of her hair back, she can't help but smile at the well dressed and painfully bruised woman in the mirror. The contrast is wildly ridiculous, but suits the reckless mood she finds herself in rather well…

***

"It is one of the world's greatest mysteries: how women can spend so much time bathing. I thought you might've drowned…" Landa's thoughtful drawl meets her the moment the she turns the knob to open the door into the bedroom.

"Have you been waiting in here the whole time?" The metal of the razor burns dully at her hipbone, and fear simmers in her belly.

"I'm afraid that I am not certain what you mean by 'the whole time' but I can assure you that I have been waiting for _quite some time_. I assumed you would be anxious for me to put a more stable bandage on your wrist."

"I am never anxious to be in your company and even less eager to be subject to your touch, Colonel." She seethes, summoning the vestiges of her former thirst for vengeance.

"That makes two of us, then…Sit down," comes the dangerous whisper from the monster in the corner.

She plops robotically down on the corner of the bed closest to the draped window--and to him.

"Give me your hand." He commands softly as he abandons his corner to kneel before her. There is only a similar gauze and what appears to be a few tongue depressors in his hand…hardly the makings of a 'stable' bandage.

"Are you not going to actually set the bone…with plaster?" she asks, puzzled.

"And effectively attach a cannon to the hand of a volatile Jew? Certainly not. The very last thing I care to do is fend off any feeble attempts you might make of hitting me with a heavy cast. The bone is not even broken; therefore plaster is unnecessary."

The Jew Hunter's eyes meet her own and his face mirrors the grinning death's head atop his cap, except that a skeleton cannot have dimples or wink mischievously. He leans in as if to tell a secret, "You'll have to think of something else, Mademoiselle."

Once again he is too close for her liking, and once again she does not know what to make of his teasing mood. She denies the half-smile that tugs at her lips; ashamed that he was even able to provoke such a response…especially when she has just decided to slit the man's throat. The idea seemed so much simpler in the steamy lavatory, where she could not be threatened by the imposing, wiry strength of his body or the infallible knowledge in his eyes. If she is going to do it—she better do so _before_ she loses her nerve. But how can she possibly expect to overpower him, and how can she even extrapolate the blade before he thwarts the attempt? Trying not to show her confusion she opts merely to shrug at him and offer her hand limply.

He takes her wrist gently, palm up, but does not remove his gaze. Something is off. He senses that she hides something. He can smell the fear and conflict; the air is ripe with it. Landa's eyes bore into her, searching for clues. The silly girl is unnerved, and her breath shakes all the way from her lungs.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me…?" he asks with one eyebrow raised and his tongue hovering at the roof of his mouth.

Shoshanna feels herself shrinking beneath his scrutiny. She can barely breathe. The Standartenführer is clearly wise to her game. Unable to endure the intense examination any longer she averts her eyes to the bedspread, not wanting to give anything away.

To avoid is to confirm. Enraged and now certain that the girl conceals something, the Nazi takes the wooden depressors in his free hand and slams them onto her trembling wrist with as much force as he can muster. The sound of the thin wood snapping mixes with the piercing cry that erupts from Shoshanna's throat. Tears immediately obscure her vision and she cannot help but sob at the fresh agony.

"Look at me, please." The Colonel purrs quietly, barely audible over her noise. But Shoshanna's sightless eyes focus only on her ruined wrist. "I said: _LOOK_ AT ME!" he sneers, yanking her delicate tear-covered chin to face him with his thumb and forefinger.

She blinks to banish the salt water and stares painfully back at him, daring him to guess her plan. Landa recognizes the defiance there, but he also sees the secret. She'll tell him soon enough, they always do. Better to let her think she's fooled him…

"I told you to keep the dressing dry." He says simply, making her jaw drop at his sudden change in tactic. "I do not have time to wrap your wrist every day. There isn't any blood, so your bandages should suffice for a few days each. Do I make myself plain?"

She nods hesitantly, perplexed but not entirely convinced that he has given up.

"Good girl." He smiles at her again, removing his hat, combing his fingers through his caramel hair, and scratching at the hint of silver at his temples. It falls into perfect place. The man is the very picture of composition; almost is if he could _never_ be surprised or without total control. It is ironic that he makes her feel the exact opposite of that. Always on the edge of crying or raging…most unlike herself.

Again, he wraps her wrist expertly, this time much tighter, making her entire arm throb dully. The Jew Hunter's forehead wrinkles and relaxes alternately with the effort, and for a moment she is lost in the way he bites his bottom lip subtly while he ties the thing into place. Every movement he makes is exercised with great grace and care. The man is a machine, she muses. But flesh and blood all the same. It will not be easy, but it _is_ possible_. It is possible_ to kill Hans Landa Hunter of Jews.

He straightens fluidly and discards the old bandage and splintered depressors in the W.C. As he walks back over to her, she scolds herself for not pulling the razor out while he had run the little errand…she can't seem to function properly with the Colonel present. Almost as if she is perpetually paralyzed with fear and anger around him, there is something else there too. Something new, something since his 'rescue' of the previous must be disgust that makes her stomach flip.

Landa perches atop the dented pail, his regal posture making it look nothing short of a throne. "Cigarette?" he asks pleasantly, offering the gold case to her. She takes one, fumbling awkwardly due to the untrained nature of her left hand. He lights her cigarette first, then his own. They take a drag in unison, each contemplating the other.

It feels good to take the calming tobacco into her lungs. With all that has happened, some simple pleasures can remain. The cigarette sobers her, reminds her that she still has control of her own actions…she even finds it somewhat easier to withstand the intrusive pair of eyes that behold her now.

"What do you feel Shoshanna?" he asks suddenly. Unsure of how to respond, she merely blinks stupidly.

"About your Negro? About Zoller betraying you? About how Zoller hurt you? You thought he would whisk you away…you thought he would understand…but he chose to thrash you, instead. Not only that but he did so with the projectionist's blood and brain matter spattered on his cuffs…What? Oh, you didn't see…" His brutal words hang heavy in the air like poisonous gas.

She is shattered. In only a few breaths he has cut her yet again, and it is only when hissing ash from the cigarette burns her hand, that she is able to blink or breathe. Landa smirks, taking the cigarette from the stunned girl and snuffs it, as well as his own, into the floorboards.

"So," he continues harshly, without giving her time to recover. "_What do you feel_?"

"Nothing." She gasps through dry sobs. "I feel nothing. I don't know how to anymore."

"Liar." He accuses, slamming his hand against the pail. "What do you feel now…here…? What do you feel when I tell you that the discovery of your family is one of the jewels of my career? That I am enjoying every moment of my time with you…that I drink in every tear, every gasp and every disenchantment like sweet wine? When I tell you that you are a sorry excuse for a Jew! When was the last time you kept the Sabbath, Shoshanna, can you even remember? You dishonor your family and heritage even though they died for it! And, you are not nearly as upset as a grief-stricken lover should be…I wonder if you cared for the Negro at all. Do you ever have the courage to feel anything you _want_ to feel…or only what you are _supposed_ to?"

He leans so far in that she can see the tiny creases set about the corners of his cruelly hypnotic eyes, and their breath collides in the small space between their faces. "_What. Do. You. Feel?_"

She inhales all the world's sorrow and hate; it tastes like blood in her mouth. Just as she tries to remember how to speak, there is a soft knock on the door. Landa breaks the spell and studies his watch.

"Right on time." He mumbles, as he rises to answer the door. Shoshanna can barely make her thoughts go fast enough to process what was just said, let alone the prospect of a visitor…therefore she is thoroughly confused by the tiny, ancient woman that Landa ushers in. She appears to be absolutely terrified and turns her beady gaze back to Landa, who merely juts his chin in Shoshanna's direction.

The woman walks hesitantly over to Shoshanna and murmurs to the floor, "Stehen Sie auf, bitte." Shoshanna shrugs at Landa who is busy lighting another cigarette in his corner.

"Oh," he blows smoke through his nostrils." This is Marion, she doesn't speak French, I'm afraid. She wants you to stand up."

"What for?" Shoshanna asks warily.

"We mustn't bicker in front of the company ma chère…Stand. Now."

Shoshanna stands and steps forward at the old woman's gesture. Marion walks around Shoshanna, her beady eyes moving up and down rapidly. Shoshanna remembers the sorry state of her face and wonders what the lady must think.

The woman asks Landa something in the thick language to which he nods in response.

"She wants you to take off your dress."

"I beg your pardon!" Shoshanna hisses incredulously. But the old woman nods encouragingly and moves to help Shoshanna out of the frock.

"Don't be absurd, I'm not undressing in front of two strangers!" she cries, taking a step back.

"Please do not be shy on my account. And, you know, it hurts me that you consider us strangers after all we've been through…" he replies sweetly.

The razor bursts into flame against her skin. If she takes off her dress, he'll see the weapon even if she is allowed to leave her slip on. _That_ is a scenario she would rather not entertain at the moment…

"Shoshanna…" he huffs. "I have never had to _force_ a woman out of her clothes. Pray, do not make me start now."

Shaking all over she lifts the dress over her head and tosses it into Landa's waiting arms. He folds it over his arm and stares brightly at her. She is relieved when the Marion begins measuring every part of Shoshanna's body without asking her to remove the slip. Slip or no slip, she feels naked, though, and prays that the telltale bump goes unnoticed by Landa.

"Am I allowed to ask what this is all about?"

"Marion is a seamstress, obviously. She is making your gown for the premier."

"My gown…for the _what_?"

"The premier. You will be accompanying me to the Private Zoller's premier in two weeks time…Don't look so worried, he won't say a word or lift a finger."

"But _why_?"

"Because. I am obligated to go and I have a strange feeling about that night. I want my prized possessions about me…"

"Well, why couldn't I have worn something you already brought? Every thing fits just fine?" she practically whines.

"Yes. I can see that." He purrs, turning his head slightly and eyeing her appreciatively. Her stomach flips, there's that…disgust…again.

"I want you to look stunning. I want the dress to hug like it was made for your body alone, I want the other women to burn with envy and the men to wish you were on their arm…Ja?" He asks the waiting seamstress, who jumps. He does not break his gaze with Shoshanna.

"Welche Farbe?" she squeaks.

"Rot…dunkel rot." His eyes stay trained on Shoshanna's face and her heart beats strangely. The old woman bows out of the room and leaves the enemies to themselves.

Does he see the razor? Does he know? He doesn't look angry…he looks, well…

"Do you want your clothes back?"

"Oh!" The question wakes her from her reverie. "Umm. Sure. I mean: yes."

He chuckles and throws the dress to her left hand. She catches it and pulls it hastily on over her head, glad to have her modesty restored. By the time she looks up, Landa is at the door.

"Would you like tea or coffee…or a glass of milk perhaps?"

Shoshanna swallows her heart, forcing it back down from her throat.

"Coffee, please.

"With crème?"

Again she swallows hard.

"Y-Yes, thank you."

He nods and winks over his shoulder, "Do try to stay out of trouble this time…"

The blade feels like a brick pressed to her skin, still she cannot help but smile at the door after he is gone.

**Reviews are my delight! I would love feedback! Sorry this was SOOOO long…it had to be done.**


	5. The Edge

**Well, lovelies, it's been ages since I've updated and I apologize for the wait. I cannot thank all of my generous and encouraging reviewers enough! Finally after a painful writing process and a few threats, including death by an army of Jane Austen-enthusiast-ninja lobsters (Verity, you are hilarious), the next bit is here. I would like to apologize to any reviewers I didn't have a chance to respond to, please give me another go…I'm a sucker for discussing these characters! I'd also like to apologize to Isabelle, for dropping off the face of the planet—you are the picture of patience and grace. So, if anyone is still out there and remotely interested, I'm going to shut my trap and get back to what is really important: Landa.**

Tiny beads of nervous sweat creep along her hairline and blossom on her shaking palms before Shoshanna finally remembers how to hate Hans Landa; the memory of which, sends air rushing painfully into her empty lungs.

How long had she been holding her breath? How long had she been staring at that scarred door, at the place where he had disappeared?

Too long.

The foolish grin still plastered about her lips slides from her face like frigid molasses, as clammy hands are rubbed frantically on her dress.

The dress _he_ had given her. The stupid, ugly, frilly…

Once again, there is an internal struggle to keep her boiling temper at bay. But the mere thought of Landa's smug expression…the audacity of him summoning a seamstress…the _insanity_ of him dragging her to Zoller's premier, is more than enough to send her into a frenzy! Zoller had attacked her not twenty-four hours ago, and Landa expected her to shake hands with the wretch? And all the while, to be plastered on The Jew Hunter's arm, like some sort of trophy?

The man is utterly infuriating! Oh, and he knows _exactly_ what he's doing! One minute he is a tyrant and the next he's flashing distractingly crooked smiles and dimples.

What is she supposed to be doing, anyway? Waiting for Landa to come back…thinking of witty insults to hurl at him…thinking about the playful little lines that frame his eyes when he smiles…

_What? _

No!

She is _supposed_ to be hatching a plan to get the straight razor off of her blistering hipbone and into Landa'scarotid artery. That's right, back to the plan. Back to logic and spilling his Nazi blood all over his pretty uniform.

It has to have been at least a few minutes since he left, how long would he be?

Sobering in the face of numbered seconds, she scrambles to tear the blade out from under her skirt _and_ annoying slip _and_ unnecessary garter belt. It feels heavy in her hand; like it could do some damage. She purses her lips to contain a hysterical snort and focuses all energy on scouring the room for a decent hiding place. The weapon won't do her any good in the W.C., but there aren't any drawers in the main room. There isn't anything, save the dented pail, the unmade bed and a pillow. Whirling in place and glancing at the door, she finally resolves to shove the razor between the mattress and box spring, in the corner respective to Landa's favorite part of the room. Thankfully, the mattress lies quite flat and there isn't any sign of what is concealed there. Perfect! With another hurried look at the door, she plops down on the bed and practices whipping the blade out from underneath the bed. It couldn't have taken more than two seconds. Heart pounding in her ears, she stows the razor safely away and pivots on the bed to face the door. Waiting.

The anticipation wreaks havoc on her nerves, so she concentrates on inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth. Inhale…exhale…Inhale…

It is not long before a key fumbles noisily at the lock on the door. An incoming breath threatens to hitch in her throat, choking the air to her brain. The door swings lazily open.

For a moment, she is confused and has to squint to make out the monstrous silhouette in the frame. Standing at about six feet seven inches, the uniformed giant in the doorway is most definitely not Hans Landa. He is silent with a severe face, and has to bend his large head to clear the doorway. Broad hands dwarf the tray he carries and his footfalls rumble as he closes the distance to the bed.

"Kaffee?" His hoarse voice is surprisingly quiet for such a large man, yet she dare not do more than twitch her fingers in the direction of the hiding razor. She isn't a fool…there isn't a single way she could successfully overpower this Titan.

"Merci. I mean…Danke?"

He sets the tray atop the bed and turns without a word.

"No, wait! Where is Landa?" The strange disappointment in her voice is evident even to herself.

The giant Nazi turns his eagle's head and blinks. Clearly the brute doesn't speak French.

"Wer…I mean, um _Wo_…Landa?" Her German is limited to the handful of words she remembers from Goebbel's disgusting films, and even she knows she's not making much sense.

As if in agreement, the man simply scowls before leaving as abruptly as he came. The sound of the clicking lock echoes in her confused mind.

Feeling oddly deflated and incredibly suspicious, she grasps the delicate cup between her thumb and forefinger and sniffs the steaming coffee, keeping her eyes trained on the door. It doesn't _smell_ poisoned…but Landa _is_ the same man who shoved chloroform up her nostrils. It would be just like him to knock her out and have a laugh about it later. Or would it? He has been fairly hospitable, aside from the occasional violent outburst…and him kidnapping her in the first place.

_Hospitable? _Hah! Better paranoid than poisoned. He had suspected her earlier, she hadn't forgotten that…and she isn't going to play into his hands. And to think: he couldn't even deliver his death-draft himself…_coward_.

Where could he have gotten to anyway?

No doubt, waiting on the other side of the door…ear pressed to the wood, straining to hear the sound of her toxin-induced convulsions. Well, he'll have to be patient. And she'll be patient too. Smirking at her own cleverness, she sets the coffee back down and scoots over to rest against the headboard and wait for The Jew Hunter's tolerance to wane.

***

Exactly when she dozed off, Shoshanna isn't sure of. But when she wakes the draperies are drawn and the tray is gone. A flick of the light switch confirms that she is by herself; by herself and hungry, but that last part isn't important. Her body is stiff with too much sleep, so she forces her joints to bend and her feet to carry her to the lavatory.

It too, is empty and there isn't a note to be found.

She runs a bath and is still alone when she emerges clad in another of Landa's despicable dresses. The entire day passes without a word from anyone. By nightfall, she half wishes for even a glimpse of the surly Nazi giant.

Another night of heavy sleep and lonely day…then another night…

Morning brings a baguette and glass of ice-cold milk, condensation still clinging to the glass. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cringe, and decides instead on refusing to eat or drink anything. _Someone_ had been here only minutes before… There is a fresh bandage on her hardly-sore wrist and a familiar scent of self-righteousness clinging to the morning chill.

A few more uneventful days pass in much the same way, punctuated with a visit from the leathery seamstress, Marion, made awkward by the absence of a certain translator.

Not a word from him. Not. A. Single. One.

Curtains open. Curtains close. New Tray of food appears. Tray is deftly removed. Over and over again…Shoshanna wonders if Landa has forgotten about her and in turn, starts to forget a few things herself…Like how to wake up, or brush her hair or eat enough food to keep her mind sharp. Just getting into the bath becomes a chore and a very real fear of dying in this repulsive prison starts to seep into the weak corners of her mind…

***

"You look terrible."

Shoshanna clenches her eyelids shut, trying to block out the stinging burst of light. Landa's French is more flawless than she remembered.

"Up you get, Sleeping Beauty! Come on, up, up!" The ecstatic edge to his sarcasm is even more alarming than the incessant light bulb overhead.

"Whurvrvve yyoubeen?" comes the slurred reply from her parched throat.

"Working."

"Hah!" She barks into the pillow.

Heat at her side, sends her limp form rolling into the concave in the mattress created by his weight and she cries out at the unexpected surge of cold air when he peels the coverlet from her body.

"I'm awake, alright! I'm up! Throwing me around won't be necessary," she whines sleepily, wriggling out from underneath his warm hands.

Landa simply smiles, climbs from the bed and shows his palms in a declaration of innocence. There is a definite change about him. Something new dances in his eyes and there is a sweet smell about him…sickly sweet…like brandy.

"You're drunk!" She infuses as much venom in the accusation as her sleep-addled brain will allow.

"Not yet," he winks.

As her eyes begin to finally adjust, she takes in his disheveled appearance: coat hanging open, top shirt-button undone, missing tie, jaw flecked with salt-and-pepper stubble. He _should_ look a mess, but the chaos seems to add only a _different_ sense of danger--like a sleeping lion. Despite his disgusting personality, she can understand why _some_ women might find the curvature of his stubbled jaw appealing. The lines around his crooked smile aren't too bad either…or they wouldn't be, if he weren't such a pig.

Thankfully, she is immune to such superficial charms and is completely ready to kill him now.

"You don't look so wonderful, yourself, you know," she offers casually, crawling to the corner of the mattress where her weapon is waiting.

"Hmm, I suppose not," he says absently, smoothing his hand down his front. "But I _have_ had a breakthrough, so I may've gotten a little carried away."

"A breakthrough," she queries cautiously, trying not to implicate herself. "What sort of break through?" She swallows loudly, and she sees the mistrust trickle into Landa's gaze. Her nervous energy puts him on his guard again, but he answers her, all the same.

"A…a capture--or several rather." He clears his throat. "You have, no doubt, heard of the Basterds: the American renegade troop that has been causing a bit of trouble for the Führer…?"

"Yes." Relief washes over her, and she relaxes in the knowledge that he isn't confronting her…yet.

"We found two of them, a possible third, and even a double agent. It appears they were having a rendezvous in a local tavern."

"How did you _find_ them?" She seethes, her curiosity getting the better of her revulsion

"They were relatively easy to find, actually. The funny thing about bodies is…they can't run away."

"Bodies? You mean they're…"

"Dead, yes." Landa eyes her, watching her proud face turn chalky and feeling his own sadistic pleasure at the sight of it. "You hardly ate anything, you know. I'm sure you've lost at least seven pounds…this is going to throw Marion's measurements off and the gown will be hanging off your bones. She won't be pleased."

"The gown…What? That's it? You killed four people and all you have to say is that I've lost weight?"

"I assure you, they were already quite dead by the time I arrived. There were some German soldiers also at the bar, and it seems there was a shooting that left all parties dead. It was really rather extraordinary! I'd never seen anything like it. Even the staff had been gunned down. It was a perfectly contained bullet storm."

Shoshanna's stomach churns at the sound of his genuine admiration.

"How do you—how do you know they were Basterds?"

"Well, Stiglitz, we've been searching for, for some time now. And we also were aware of the other German-born Basterd, Wicki. The English soldier was an interesting development; I admit…we never would've known his identity, were it not for the dog tag in his boot. But it was Von Hammersmark that disappointed me most. I swear, had I found her alive, I could've strangled her myself. There is nothing more petulant than a traitor." This last is delivered to the floor and it is a few tense seconds before Landa unclenches his fists and looks brightly up at Shoshanna.

"_Bridget_ Von Hammersmark? The actress?"

"The traitor," he corrects darkly. "Actually, _three_ women were killed. A barmaid and female officer were also found dead. But we believe Von Hammersmark's death was an accident. The preliminary conjecture is that the bullet entered through her calf, a non-fatal wound, and migrated to her femoral artery…from the visible signs, she died from exsanguination. It was slow and most likely very painful. There is some justice at least." With a sigh, Landa turns his back on Shoshanna, rubbing his eyes. Not wasting any time, she takes advantage of his momentary preoccupation and seizes the razor from under the mattress and nestles it silently beneath her thigh, all before Landa turns to face her. Three seconds, tops.

"Justice?" She spits, charged with her own brand of exhilaration now. "You can't call several unnecessary deaths justice!"

"Can't I? I thought I just did…" Landa senses the shift in the room and searches her eyes for whatever feeble mischief she has planned.

"You…you…" She struggles for the perfect insult but is overcome with shaking rage.

"What? What am I exactly?" he taunts, not ruffled in the slightest. "You cannot seriously be _this_ devoted to your Jewish cause. The sooner you stop _claiming _to have cared for the Negro or the family you can't even remember anymore, the be—"

Faster than a snake would strike, she pounces, pushing him into the corner. Adrenaline courses through her veins and the taste of victory dances on her tongue. The blade pressing into his throat needs just the slightest pressure to paint the walls with his blood. He seems more amused than bothered, however, and even chuckles throatily. They both feel the violent shiver that wracks Shoshanna's body…from…disgust?

"You won't do it," comes his low whisper

"Won't I?" Her throat pinches, and she tries to blink away the brimming water in her eyes.

"No. You won't."

His magnetic gaze is disarmingly honest with the most delicate trace of sympathy…the last thing she wants is the devil's pity, yet she can't look away. She can't help it; which only fuels her anger. Noses on the brink touching and chests heaving: she can see everything about him. Every facet of crystal blue in his eyes, the soft texture of his eyelashes, the prisms of light thrown from his hair, the feathery lines on his lips…She can see every detail, every flaw…and every patronizing drop of pity on his face. The smell of his warm skin and her salty tears swirl in the small space between them, drowning her.

"I hate you," she growls. "You've stolen everything from me."

Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts a steady hand and gently wipes the collection of salt water from her cheeks. His fingers whisper down her face, over her chin, along her throbbing throat and curl around the base of her neck. Not in a threatening way, but more reassuring...almost _tender_. His palm rests flat on her collarbone, absorbing her wild heartbeats.

"Shhhh…" he soothes.

"I _hate_ you," she chokes.

"I know."

With his left hand still resting on her chest, he carefully raises his right to cover her shaking blade-hand. She can think of absolutely nothing—nothing other than the pair of mesmerizing eyes before her, and scarcely feels the gentle pressure of his hand as he wrests the razor from her grip.

He waits patiently as she heaves her last sobs, tracing lazy patterns on her collarbone.

"Come with me," he snarls suddenly. Twisting her good wrist harshly, almost to the point of her tolerance, he drags her abrasively to the W.C., throws open the door and flings her up on the marble vanity. Her back slams into the mirror--he ignores both her outcry of pain and the sound of the glass cracking.

"Don't move." He is a man possessed and riffles loudly through the drawers beneath her. Finally, he slaps a mug, a Badger fur brush and the straight razor on the counter next to her thigh. She watches paralyzed, as he rips his coat off, runs scalding water in the sink, and then tears the shirt from his body. He growls impatiently as he pulls the stiff leather belt from his pants, and for a moment, Shoshanna is petrified of another kind of violation. She is confused again, however, when he palms the razor, steps on the tail of the belt and begins smoothing the blade. After a few minutes, he is apparently satisfied with the edge and he puts the razor back within her reach, without looking at her. She doesn't move. He seems to have forgotten that she's there as he runs the brush under the boiling water, and begins lathering the shaving soap in the mug.

"You need to understand not only what _I'm_ capable of…" he grunts, staring past her, into his own reflection in the cracked mirror. "But also what _you_ are capable of—and what you aren't."

Landa brushes the lather hastily over his jaw, mouth and neck, before scooping the excess off of his lips. Picking the razor up once more, he finally gives Shoshanna his eyes. Contrary to his body language, his gaze is calm and even boasts some of his usual smugness. In one stride, he inserts his body between her legs, making her gasp, and brings the now smooth blade between their faces.

"You couldn't kill me in your rage. And I'll prove to you now, that you can't do it while you're quiet. You don't have it in you, you see, and you never will. Not because you are a coward…" he cradles the back of her head urgently, insistently. "No. Not because you are afraid…but because you don't _want_ to. Four years ago I changed your life, and you haven't learned how to live without me since. I was there every time you slept, every time you ate, every time you cried, or laughed or even sighed a lover's name. I _am _you. Now, take this…" he puts the shiny blade in her hand, and closes her slender fingers around it.

"What? I—what do you expect me to do?"

"What you think is right." With that, he turns in place, tugging her forward so that her chest is flush with his back. The Jew Hunter closes his eyes and lifts his chin, guiding her quivering hand to his throat.

Shoshanna stares down at her hand and sees not only the razor, but also the _life_ he has put there. Licking her lips, and tilting her head to get a better view, she presses the gleaming silver into his soft flesh.


	6. The Surrender

****So, some of you may be disappointed by the spoiler that this chapter does NOT feature the premiere…however, I think a great deal of you may be relieved to know that the M rating comes into play here. Too soon? Maybe. Tell me what you think. I couldn't devise a way to keep anything moving without letting them have a romp already. The premiere is next, pinky promise. Feedback is immensely appreciated! Hope you all like it!** **

Nothing… not a ghost of a whisper…not a single noise…but for his even breathing and the spine-tingling sound of the razor dragging slowly along his jaw, leaving a trail of silk where salt and pepper had been. Delicate streaks of soap mark the places the blade forgot, glistening like dewy gossamer. Steam hovers thickly long after the faucet is stopped, heightening the subtle fragrance of fine brandy and the consuming aroma that is uniquely Hans Landa. The hint of cloves sends her mind reeling to a buried winter evening…

_Her father's large hands help her tiny fingers to push the dried blooms into the exotic orange fruit…the rind breaks, spilling sweet juice, and making her hands sticky. A more beautiful pomander never existed, he says proudly. He had kissed her on the nose before setting her creation on the windowsill, where it would gleam fragrantly in the morning sun…_

A whiff of gun oil dissolves her childhood reminiscence and thrusts her into another recollection: her first memory of Landa…she would never forget it because it was also the _last_ memory of her father.

_Jacob Dreyfus's large, warm hands frantically trying to staunch the gurgling blood, gushing from the many holes in his chest…Jacob's mouth, gaping: spraying blood from his punctured lungs…her father's frightened eyes as he saw the bloody mess his family had become…her father's final, silent pleas for her to run, as breath abandoned his battered body…_

It takes another hand, large like her father's; stilling hers, before she realizes that the sharp object there is shaking dangerously.

"Second thoughts?" His voice is wry and husky—almost daring her.

Unable to produce sound just yet, she shrugs in a non-committal way.

"Finish it," comes his cool command.

Her mind is a war zone of emotion, but her body responds easily to his voice. She cannot see him well, though, and uses her free arm to snake around his neck and rest on his hard chest, giving her proper leverage to survey the last careful strokes of the blade. This is the closest she has ever been to him, now, with her bare arm pressed to his exposed chest. Despite the hurt tugging at her throat and the confusion buzzing in her ears, there is something transfixing about the proximity. A more soothing scent, that of amber, puts not memories in her mind…but ideas. Strange flashes of hands and legs…of mouths…things she doesn't want to think about…or admit…

It is hard work trying to force her breathing to match his. Her heart gallops strangely, on an off-beat and seeing as she can't seem to control her _thoughts_, she'll settle for minding her inhaling and exhaling. This fresh fracture in her soul…this rift divides an old repulsion and a new magnetism. _Why_ is it suddenly so difficult to attach conviction and emotion to the hate that buzzes in her brain? It was not _always_ so! There had been a time when she knew _who_ Landa was and _what_ she felt about him. Hadn't there? The facts hadn't changed: he was still a murderer and a foul dog! Why couldn't someone explain that to blush creeping up her cheekbones or her erratic cardiovascular system?

"You're very quiet—what are you thinking about?" He pulls her arm from him, raising gooseflesh from the sudden deprivation of heat. Now facing her and the mirror, he runs his fingers over her handiwork, perfecting what little she missed.

"You have a scar on your back," she says evasively, eyeing the raised tissue covering his left shoulder.

"Hmm. Yes," he murmurs, glancing over at it, "It was hollow point. That is why the wound looks so large…there were many fragments to remove."

"You were shot? I thought you were a medic?"

A moment while he splashes water on his face and dries meticulously.

"Yes, I completed a…" his voice falters almost imperceptibly at her curious touch. His gaze is hot on her fingers as she explores the thick scar tissue, imagining how excruciating the gunshot had to have been. Knowing him, he wasn't even anesthetized for the extraction; it must've been Hell.

Good.

"…a rotation. But I also served in combat; one does not _enter_ the S.S. as Hitler's personal bloodhound. Like any hierarchy, I had to move up." She nods her head in understanding and drops her hand, suddenly embarrassed and angry that she should even be remotely interested in his past. Landa does not seem to notice, however, and pats his clean-shaven jaw in appreciation. "You did a very fine job. Have you ever shaved a man's face before?"

Shoshanna shakes her head.

"Well, there is a first time for everything, yes?" Mischief lights his blue eyes, making her forget how to breathe again.

Landa uses her stunned silence to gather his articles of clothing scattered across the bathroom and fold them neatly, but not don them. He seems oblivious to the fact that he is half-naked, which is more than Shoshanna can say. Why doesn't he at least put a shirt on: another ploy to test her? If only it wasn't so effective…she can't help but memorize every distinct understated abdominal muscle as he bends to pick up his coat…the way his forearms flex softly to fold the shirt…how the light glints from his defined shoulders as he sits and braces himself contently on the edge of the freestanding tub. Perhaps if he put his shirt on, she could feel all the venom she used to feel.

"I must say, for a woman who scarcely wants for words…you're unusually reserved. Dreaming up another assassination attempt, are we?"

"No…" His cordiality is suspect. She had tried to cut his throat and here he sits, no more upset than if by an amusing practical joke

"Fresh out? Pity—I rather enjoy our little scuffles. Violence becomes you," he purrs. An unfamiliar sense of pride quivers in her belly. There is a struggle to force her mouth to remain in a hard line, though she cannot snuff the crimson that blooms on her cheeks and chest. The Jew Hunter's mouth curves into knowing smirk and he cocks his head slyly. "Well, what then?"

"I was thinking about how…well, I was wondering where you'd gone."

"I don't enjoy repeating myself…so it frustrates me to have to tell you—again—that I was working."

"Last I checked, my memory is still excellent," she snaps, regaining some fire. "I was referring to where you were, specifically, geographically."

"Why should that matter to you?" he queries, unimpressed by her acidity.

"I was just curious about what could've garnered you attention so, that you could forget about a captive rotting away while you played detective."

"Why you should think for a second that I would care for your well-being is beyond me. I bought you some pretty things to wear and fixed your boo-boo…I fail to see the significance. I like _my things_ to look nice and be whole…that doesn't mean I'll abandon my duties to entertain you."

"Your _things_?! I am not a thing, Hans!"

_What?_

She had just said his first name, for the first time…and what's worse, during a spat akin to a lover's quarrel. All the heat is gone from the room, and she swears her core temperature just plummeted twenty degrees. No, no, no…this whole situation is becoming far too familiar. He is The Jew Hunter…_The Jew Hunter_…not Colonel, not Landa and definitely not _Hans_. Yet the insidious name had rolled off her tongue like velvet. And it had felt _good_; it had felt _honest_. When did things change so much that condemning him felt like a lie? He killed her family!!! Why doesn't that sting as much anymore?

His eyes are molten and he regards her as though she is some magnificent creation. A damn had broken and spilled forth uncharted waters. For the moment, she is drowning in his glowing satisfaction. Everything about him exudes victory: his arrogant posture, his tongue resting against his top teeth. He is speechless, but he is boasting all the same.

"I—I mean—what I _meant_ was…you drag me here but then you just leave me for days, without any explanation. If you aren't going to kill me, then you might as well _do_ something with me!"

"What do you have in mind exactly?" The sultry edge to his voice sends a jolt of electricity from the bottom of her spine, all the way up and shocks the corners of her jaw. Teeth clamp shut audibly, and he smirks at the sound. In an instant she is as burning as she had been freezing. This insufferable man is wreaking havoc on her body's homeostasis!

"Well, you—ask your questions, already, and turn me loose! How are you supposed to get what you want out of me, if you're off doing God knows what?"

"Indeed. How _am_ I supposed to get what I want?"

Everything keeps coming out wrong! She can hardly reorient herself, if he continues to twist everything she says…so she lapses into silence.

Landa recognizes her defeat and continues where he left off, "At any rate I didn't 'leave you for days.' I checked on you every night; every one—all thirteen of them. You are quite the animated dreamer, actually. I don't think I've ever heard a lady use such colorful words. And I must admit, I was surprised to hear my name figure so prominently in your nighttime fantasies."

"You were _spying_ on me!"

"A kidnapper's perk, I suppose. Which is it, though, did you want me here or not?"

"I—I don't even talk in my sleep," comes her confused and frustrated denial.

"I assure you Mademoiselle—you do." Landa's superior smile is torture, in more ways than one. She scrambles to change the subject.

"What do you mean thirteen, anyway? It cannot have been two weeks since we last spoke," she croaks.

"Have you even looked in the mirror? Have you tried flexing your wrist? It has most definitely been two weeks, ma chère. Private Zoller's premier is tomorrow evening, in fact."

Sure enough, a sidelong glance into the ruined mirror reveals a face free of bruises or swelling; a perfect face, framed in wild tresses. Had it really been two weeks? She moves to unwind the bandage from her wrist, but Landa is already there: carefully divesting her forearm of the gauze. She can feel it before he's done: the stiffness and distant ache. The bone is whole, fragile, but whole. Two fingers glide up her tender forearm, tracing the blue veins there. He puts pressure on a vein, pushes the blood from it and then releases the pressure, watching intently as the blue color courses back into place. He chuckles as if at some private joke and locks eyes with her.

"You make the mistake of thinking that all of my questions are the kind that need to be asked. Observation is a very powerful tool of detection. In a very short time, you've changed; right before my eyes, and watching you fight that change has been immensely amusing. But since you're so keen on answering my questions…Where did hide after I let you go. How did you end up at the cinema?"

The switch in topic jars her and chokes a laugh from her throat.

"_That's_ what you want to know? You want to know how I spent my life on the run???"

"Yes," he puts pressure on her wrist again, a little too much pressure, smothering her circulation. "Yes, that is precisely what I care to know."

"Ah, ouch…I'll tell you, I will. It's just that, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. It's not even a thrilling story."

"I'm breathless, all the same…" he hisses, placing his hands on the counter, millimeters away from either of her hips; effectively locking her up in a Landa-cage. Faces mere inches apart, she swallows nervously, while he drums his fingers impatiently on the marble.

"I didn't stop running until I reached the small wood on the outskirts of LaPadite's farm. I was afraid to leave the cover of the trees, I thought you would surely be there waiting for me…but after a few days, I couldn't find any more berries to eat and I decided that that I would rather die by fire than by starvation. So, I stepped out in the sun and when I realized I was alone, made my way to a barn a few miles east of the LaPadite's. I stowed away with the horses, but must've passed out from hunger because I came to in a bed, in the country cottage of the Mimieux's. Jean-Pierre and Ada were an older couple, but they had no children. Perhaps that is why they took pity on me. They never asked me any questions, except for the invitation to come back to Paris with them—to help run their cinema. Jean-Pierre and Ada gave me a new life, and after a year or so, I began to feel human again. And that's all of it," Shoshanna concludes with a sigh.

"What about the projectionist? You didn't say anything about him."

"Perhaps, because that is none of your business…you asked me how I came to be at the cinema; and I told you."

"Awfully guarded about the Negro, aren't you?" he needles.

"I guess I have a difficult time discussing Marcel with you, considering you threw him in Fredrick's war path," at last, a familiar anger bubbles within her.

"Yes…_Fredrick. _I wonder how you must've behaved to make him believe you wanted him…a few teasing caresses…" Slowly his hand slides up over her hip, and down her thigh and slips dangerously inward…curving before the place where her legs are clenched together. His mouth is poised over hers, sinfully close, but still un-touching. He whispers to her lips, "…Like this perhaps…"

Breathing ragged, and her eyes clamped shut…she can no longer feel the anger. She can only feel Hans Landa as his other hand flutters over her navel, up her ribcage…up…

"How did you do it, Shoshanna?" he hums and smiles at her gasp when his hand finally cups her breast urgently. "How did you throw yourself at a Nazi?"

SMACK!

Landa's hands are instantly gone from her body, and massaging his cheek instead.

"There she is," he chuckles, spitting blood on the tile. Her hand is throbbing, but he acts as though he barely felt a tap.

"How _dare _y " she begins to screech.

"Oh, but I do…and I have not one reservation about playing your way."

His hands are a blur and she is mystified when her bottom is lifted an inch or so from the counter and suspended in mid air. Her eyes follow the stabbing pain in her arms, up above her head to the discomfort in her wrists. In seconds, The Jew Hunter has literally strung her up to the sturdy light fixture using a familiar multi-purpose belt.

"Let me down!!!" She screams.

"You hit me," he points out.

"You called me a whore!!!"

"I never said those words, and I never will," he answers innocently.

"Semantics!" she hisses.

"But an important distinction! Besides, you did not slap me out of anger—if you can call _that_ a slap! You slapped me because you didn't want me to stop, did you? Are you frightened, Shoshanna?"

"Like _hell_ I am!!! I don't even know what to feel anymore! I can't get your miserable face out of my head! All I want to do is hate you! But you won't let me! I _know _how I'm supposed to think, but I just _can't _anymore! You ask me to betray everything I've ever held dear! You sit there with your Goddamned irresistible face, and smile in a way that makes my head swim, and strut around half naked, spouting profound truths about me…forcing me into some kind of self-realization! But it's too much! I can't just _forget_ who I am! I can't! I'll die first! Stop it! Just stop! Stop making me want you!"

"Are you through?" he drawls.

"Yes!"

"Are you going to kick me if I approach you?"

"Maybe!"

Armed with his crooked smile and dimples, he crosses over to the panting woman. Brushing tangles back from her glistening face, he runs his thumb across her mouth, dips the finger between her lips—narrowly avoiding her teeth—and paints her pout glossy before licking his finger clean. The low noise that rumbles from his throat sends her into a minor convulsion, and he chuckles throatily at the sight of her.

"Listen well, ma chère, for I may only say this once: I can appreciate how confusing this has all been for you. You are not the only one who has struggled against their better judgment. True, that you are a Jew and I am a Nazi. However, those titles may be little more than that—your so-called ascribed status? You cling to the idea only because you don't know how to be without it. As for _my_ loyalties, they lie solely in what serves me best: puzzles and detection. Do I care for the Jews? Not in the slightest. Can you honestly say you care either? The supposed atrocities that I lay claim to are, indeed, part of my whole, and I do not regret a single thing. Either you will accept all of me or you'll have none of me. I can say only this: you have transfixed me in a way unprecedented and unimaginable; clouded my mind and taken root in my very body. That said; do not make the foolish error in underestimating my ability to snap your lovely neck at any time. I _do_ have my limits. I don't expect any answers from you now; in fact, I don't want to hear a word out of your mouth. The decision is yours…but I'm still going to kiss you."

His mouth descends on hers: crushing and urgent, yet warm. Alarms sounding in her head and resistance pounding in her throat, she tries to throw him off of her by arching her back and thrashing against the restraint. The attempt serves only to push their chests together, spurring him on. His soft lips are ceaseless and coaxing. She tries to kick him, but he slides deftly between her legs and throws the flailing limbs around his hips. She turns her head, accomplishing nothing other than to allow him access to her throat. As his tongue glides slowly over the ridges of her trachea, she growls in frustration, squirming futilely.

"I expected more from you…you can do _much_ better than that," his patronizing whisper tickles her earlobe and arouses a ferocity she didn't know existed. Somehow she is kissing him back: kissing him, yet trying to hurt him. Their mouths move violently against one another, she can almost feel the bruises tomorrow will bring. The pain in her arms is suddenly welcome, and she clenches her legs pressing Landa's hips further into her pelvis. His enthusiasm is obvious, and a feral cry rips from her throat when he grinds into her. Buttons pop, and his teeth nip playfully at her décolletage. His mouth feels so amazing that she doesn't care who she is, or what is right or wrong. All she can think, is how sinful his mouth and hands are, and that if she can't have every bit of him, she'll surely burst into flame.

"Hans…get me to the bed, _now_! She croaks between strangled breaths.

Needing no further encouragement, he yanks the belt free and supports her entirely on his own. The angry red ligature marks on her wrist send her into a lustful frenzy. Locking all four limbs around him, she digs her fingernails deep into his shoulder blades, doing her worst to draw blood. Landa crosses over to the bed in four impatient strides and flings her on the mattress. All too quickly, yet not fast enough, he tugs the dress over her head and claws the undergarments from her body. The both of them are shaking forcefully, but the movement of her hand along his taut abdomen to his trousers, is fluid—as is the removal of said garment.

When at last there is nothing between the two, but furious wanting, he sidles between her welcoming legs. He waits for insistent permission to shroud her eyes and captures her mouth with his once more before crossing the final threshold.

There is no greater feeling than the sensation of Hans Landa inside of her. All of the waiting and tension makes the movements of their hips even more profound. There is no other pleasure, nothing more consuming…or so she thought…until his body entices an ecstasy from her very core that shatters any control she has left: leaving her lips and teeth anchored to his neck and her body quivering around him. Blessed waves of bliss crash over her long after his hips stop moving and she wonders if the pleasure will ever wane.

She is still basking in her contentment when he cloaks her exhausted form in a sheet and wraps his arms around her. Her mind begs sluggish questions while she caresses his forearm: all along the lines of, "What now?" She doesn't have any answers. Yet that does little to annoy her, here and now, enveloped in the arms of a hunter.


End file.
